


Watch

by Ellipsical



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, Femlock, Genderbent- Sherlock and John are women, Public Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 15:11:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9188036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellipsical/pseuds/Ellipsical
Summary: John and Sally are getting off in the bathroom at Scotland Yard and Sherlock walks in...





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



“Oh, God, Sally…”

It’s a truly terrible idea.

Inappropriate. Not to mention dangerous. Ridiculous to boot.

 _It’s absolutely ridiculous_ , John thinks as Sally lifts John up and sets her down on the counter, pushing between John’s legs which wind reflexively (traitorously) around her waist.

 _Teenagers. Teenagers hide in the loo_ , John thinks with only half her brain as she licks into Sally’s mouth.

Sally bites John’s bottom lip, hard, and John groans. It echoes off the tile. Above them the fluorescent light buzzes, flickering, white-yellow-white.

“Quiet,” Sally hisses, her fingers sliding up the backs of John’s calves; the rake of her nails sending small tremors up John’s spine.

Teenagers.

Teenagers snog desperately like they’re going to get caught at any moment.

Teenagers sit on counters in the loo at Scotland Yard on a Tuesday at 1 o’clock in the morning and hold their breath to keep from panting, fingers fumbling at knickers, palms scraping over nipples, hands grasping clumsily at arses.

Teenagers…

Sally drops to her knees, pulling John’s underwear with her in one smooth motion, and John can’t help but gasp, all coherent thought chased out. Fingers wrapped around the faucet to her left. They slip, still slick; Sally's scent still spiking the air around her. Sally had come quick and hard and she had tasted salty sweet on John's tongue. Back pressed to the mirror, cold against the fever of her skin. Her thighs fall open.

Between her knees Sally’s grin is wicked. Feral. Her dark eyes wild. Pupils still blown wide from orgasm. John slides her right hand into the soft curls that frame her face.

“Sherlock will know,” John whispers, grasping at sanity, as she thumbs across the freckles on Sally’s cheeks. Sweeps down to the corner of Sally’s mouth and over the swell of her bottom lip. Sally turns her head into the touch and sucks the tip of John’s thumb between her lips. John’s heart in her cunt, pulsing.

“‘Going by the state of my knees’?” Sally quotes, popping off John’s thumb with an obscene noise. She shakes her head. “Sherlock Holmes can suck my bloody cock.” And the chuckle dies in John’s throat as Sally’s eyes slip closed and she leans forward, running the tip of her nose up the inside of John’s thigh. John is grateful that she isn’t standing because she’s sure she would have fallen otherwise.

Sally pushes both her hands into the folds of John’s skirt, pinning them at John’s hips, and then her tongue is stroking John’s clit and John can feel her blood pounding against the press of Sally’s open mouth.

John’s head slams back against the mirror with a thud, her eyes rolling up to the ceiling. The light sizzles, white-yellow-white. Her hands scramble for purchase, closing around the faucet, knuckles grating against the loose grout of the tile.

It’s a terrible idea.

Sherlock will know.

She will take one look at John’s wrinkled skirt, at, at an errant piece of lint on Sally's shoulder, and she will _know_.

And John won’t be able to lie to her. John has never been able to lie to her and…and… _oh fuck_ …

The broken sound John makes as Sally dips two of her fingertips just inside her, curling up, up, _up_ , masks the whoosh of the door pushing open behind her.

John stiffens, her hands spasming in Sally’s hair. Sally moans and nuzzles closer, adding her tongue alongside her fingers. John makes a strangled sound.

Sherlock, frozen, one palm flat on the door. Her hair wind-tossed and tangled. Raindrops glinting on the shoulders of her coat. She raises one long finger to her lips as John opens her mouth to speak.

John swallows the words, _Stop, oh God, Sally, stop_.

Sherlock’s pale eyes burn, hot as ice on John’s skin.

 _Fuckfuckfuck_.

She’s close.

She can feel it building in her thighs, a knot gathering in the small of her back, her clit throbbing, hard and aching.

Sherlock watching.

Sherlock _watching_.

Her flatmate’s eyes scorch over John’s exposed, oversensitive skin, her breasts framed by the lapels of her unbuttoned shirt, her gaze skimming down to where Sally’s head is buried between John’s thighs.

When their eyes meet again there is an electric current arcing between them, a taut sparking wire. Lightning cracks inside her chest, shocking the air from John’s lungs.

She shivers down to her toes.

John can’t look away. Her legs fall impossibly wider. She tips her head back, drunk on the unexpected heat in Sherlock’s gaze.

The last time Sherlock looked at her like this was a week ago when they stood beside a pool willing to die for each other.

It’s unclear to John what exactly she is doing, but it feels like she’s issuing a challenge. Her blood chasing recklessly through her veins, hot and hotter.

She doesn’t bother to bite back the next moan. She let’s it tear free, let’s it bounce off the walls. Animal, guttural. She relishes the way it makes Sherlock lick her lips. John can see her swallow and her pale eyes glaze over. She falters, her hand clenching, knuckles scraping against the door. Bracing herself. As if she might fall.  


Sherlock watching John.

Sherlock watching John as she rides Sally’s tongue, hips rolling out, hands fisted in Sally’s curls.

Sherlock watching, as John cries out, coming painfully hard, holding her eyes open, holding Sherlock’s gaze, holding her there for a string of seconds that last for years, before Sherlock blinks, severing the wire, the door swinging shut with a soft click behind her.

  
_______________________________

They share a cab home.

“All right?” John asks quietly, both of them bent over their phones. The silence is suffocating. John is embarrassed and oddly afraid. It makes her feel ill, sore and nauseous.

Sherlock looks at her as if John is a first rate idiot for bringing it up.

“Fine,” Sherlock says, her tone clipped. The blade of her eyes cuts back to her phone screen as if watching John get off in a restroom with one of their colleagues bores her terribly. John is about to change the subject, bring it back around to the case they just closed with spectacular results, but instead she just looks out the window and lets it simmer in her blood. The way she had felt with Sherlock’s eyes on her.

Sherlock watching.

Watching.


End file.
